


He Bent The Knee

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Disappointment, Dubious Consent, Family Dynamics, M/M, Medical Procedures, Pining, Power Imbalance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 13:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: ...but it was not a thing he did gladly.





	He Bent The Knee

**Author's Note:**

> Lion, Luther, and the process of becoming Astartes.

When they learned of the high mortality rate of Astartes augmentations, Luther was somewhat relieved to discover the high risk low reward rates for adults. It meant, he had assumed, that there would be little chance for him to undergo the procedure. And so his name had not been called for the first three batches of Caliban recruits and so he had relaxed.

It was a foregone conclusion, he would come to discover, as was ever the case with his adopted son come page come knight. He had thought, since Lion had come into his true birthright as lord of the stars, there would be a distance between them. He was Luther, merely Sar Luther of Caliban; the boy's real father was the Emperor of Mankind. But Lion spoke with his real father for hours at most before returning to Caliban and speaking of mustering new troops.

Luther was kept close at hand throughout this. It was not so different from before; with the poorly-masked pity from those around them and -- more distracting -- Lion's intense gaze. Like before, Luther would be something entirely mundane: polishing his armour, balancing figures, even speaking with the pages to be, and he would feel the Lion looking at him. The other was still a child in some ways; when Luther caught him in the act, he did not turn away or look remorseful. No, he kept right on staring, until Luther was forced to continue as usual, biting back from reprimanding the other.

Because of the flurry of activity, stretching Caliban's resources all the thinner, it was easy to forget. While Luther valued the whole of the world, from the knights and their supporters to the townsfolk and the raiders, and even the beasts in the forests, for Lion, there had only ever been him.

He was caught off-guard when the first generation of Caliban-born Astartes came for him. He recognised elements of their faces and thought himself capable of naming the men, but they gave little more than a cursory greeting and really, it was possible all he saw in them was the reflection of Lion. The pair led him into the innermost chambers of the laboratory, the gleaming gold and steel of the Tech-Priests of the Legion.

-

The Lion was there, dressed as neither knight nor primarch. He was wearing the robes of an apothecary, long black shrouds that reminded Luther of mourning. He stood at the center of the room, before an operating table, and Luther understood at once.

"Luther," Lion said.

"My liege," Luther replied.

The newly-minted Primarch of the Dark Angels turned to the pair of the Astartes. "Thank you," he said with a clipped tone, "Leave us now."

"By your will, my lord," the pair responded, and there was suddenly nothing recognisable in either of them. They left and the door closed behind them, leaving the two of them in the chamber.

"My liege," Luther tried again, feeling sick to his stomach as the diagrams and charts of Astartes modifications flooded into him, "Please don't do this."

Lion frowned at this request. "You have nothing to fear Luther," he reassured, "I've already practiced on ten men, all more advanced in age than you."

Death was the least of Luther's concerns.

"I do not doubt your ability to master any craft, no matter how delicate," Luther answered, "But I do not want this."

Lion's brow creased further. Though the inner workings of other people on a whole were as much of a mystery as the other way around, the decades spent with Luther demanded some degree of understanding. He knew, in that moment, that Luther desired a natural life and with it, a natural death. Despite all the time they had spent together, despite the honours and glories heaped upon him -- despite the promise of the stars themselves -- Luther still wished to follow his wife. He felt his heart turn at the thought of the deceased woman; there was no one else who could make him so innately envious. Was it not enough that she had him, in a way Lion could never manage, that her spirit still desired to drag him to the banks of the Styx too?

"What you desire is irrelevant," he said at last. He watched Luther's jaw clench, and then the other man, his foster father turned subordinate, swallowed and nodded. "So long as I have need of you," the Lion continued, "So you shall live. Were those not the terms of your pledge?"

"That they were, my liege," Luther answered, dipping his head.

"Good." The word was putrid in his mouth and he felt ill. "Disrobe yourself and lie on the table. I'll prepare the anesthetic." Lion turned around, busying himself with the instruments he had spent the past month acquainting himself with. Despite his own warring emotions and the sound of Luther's armor and robes being set on the dressing table, his hands were steady and his breaths were even. The ten men before were older than Luther and in somewhat worse physical condition, but they had survived the transformation. Luther, being the man who raised him, was better than them. He would survive.

When he turned back, Luther had done as bid and was now lying on the operating table with his arms at his sides and his eyes closed. His arm was limp when Lion picked it up, though his eyelids fluttered when he slid the tip of the needle into the vein. When it was done, he laid Luther's arm back down and set the needle aside. In a matter of minutes, the other man's chest was rising and falling in true unconsciousness. Lion hooked him up to various machines, confirming that he was, truly, asleep.

He ached at the sight. Since early adolescence, he had wanted nothing more than this. But Luther would give no quarter, to the point where even here and now, with their ranks and sizes in reverse and Luther entirely under his mercy, Lion could do nothing more than trace his fingers against the other man's cheekbones.

How he longed to embrace him. To kiss his mouth and everywhere else. But more than that, he wanted the gesture -- if not the emotion -- returned. There would be time, he reminded himself, all he needed was more time. Once Luther had been granted immortality, it would only be a matter of decades, perhaps centuries. His adolescence had felt like millennia; Lion was certain he could wait.

And so he got to work.

-

It was a long and arduous process. What took four to six years for adolescents needed to be completed in a single operation. At multiple points, Lion was immensely grateful that he did not delegate the task to someone else. Anyone short of a Primarch would have faltered and floundered half a dozen times, to say nothing of exhaustion at the intensity of concentration required. But when he needed to blink fatigue from the corner of his vision, he thought of the years Luther had devoted to him, of the steadfast compassion and companionship the other man had shown him, back when Lion had nothing to offer, and he redoubled his efforts. And so, seven days and seven nights passed.

He double-checked the vitals on the morning of the eighth day before disconnecting Luther from the wire that had been dripping anesthesia. And then he sat back and waited.

The mean time to wake for the ten previous patients had been six hours, with the shortest at four and a half and the longest at nine. Luther stirred at two hours in and Lion stood up, instantly alert, so that he could be the first thing Luther saw in his changed state.

In his heart of hearts, Lion had hoped that something in the geneseed might resonate. Through a combination of youth and steady indoctrination, the younger neophytes looked at him... well, as he had looked upon Luther, all those years ago. The older test subjects felt little of that innate affection as was natural. And still, he had hoped Luther might be the exception.

Luther opened his eyes and moved to sit up. Lion was by his side in a heartbeat, helping him up. He looked at himself, at his new body, at his arms and legs. It was a masterful job, far better than the test subjects. There was no adoration in Luther's eyes, but he might at least give thanks or praise.

Instead, he sat on the edge of the operating table and wept. And in the tears, Lion felt despair. He felt regret and frustration and sympathy, but mostly despair. And he despaired as well, fearful in the most surreal sense, that this ploy, perhaps, would finally grant Luther reason enough to resent him.

But Luther was a stoic through and through and the emotional onset ended as quickly as it had come. He took a series of deep breaths before stepping off the table and getting dressed. Lion watched, at a loss for words, until Luther was fully garbed once more. The new robes fit him well, but the armour could be better-molded; despite Lion's efforts, there was no chance of mistaking the other to be a full-grown Astartes. Lion opened his mouth, to praise or thank he didn't know, but Luther cut him off by dropping to one knee before him.

"I thank you for this blessing, my liege," Luther said. And though the words were heavy on his tongue and the sound bitter with betrayal, Lion felt himself hearten all the same.

"You have nothing to thank me for, brother," Lion answered, making his tone light while pulling the other up, "My debt to you is still far from repaid. Come, let us go to armourers and get you a more handsome suit; I should like to introduce you as my first captain and right hand before the evening meal."

For a split second, Luther paused, as if reluctant to be led. And then he relaxed, giving a little sigh and shaking his head.

"By your will, my liege," he answered, allowing Lion to take him by the arm.


End file.
